The Philadelphia Murder Story by Leslie Ford Read Free Book Online Page A

Whitney.
    “What are you doing out of uniform?” Laurel retorted.
    “I’m not on business befitting an officer and a gentleman, Coppertop,” he said calmly. “Let’s say I’m exercising, which makes it okay. I still don’t know what you’re doing.”
    He lighted a cigarette, his eyes searching hers intently across the tip of flame from his fighter.
    “We’re going to see Travis,” she said. “Don’t let us keep you, major.”
    “I figured that one out already, and you’re not keeping me. In fact, I’m coming along.”
    She stood there stiffly for an instant, and then we followed him up the steps. There was a sharp click-click-click as he pressed the bell. He opened the door and stood aside as we went in. It was a handsome house of the late 1890 taste, and had the air of needing a woman’s hand and a couple of open windows. The dark green walls were covered with large lithographs and heavy gilt-framed pictures of cows standing placidly around in fields by brooks. Upstairs, the back library, where Travis Elliot was, was slightly more modern. The portraits of past Elliots looked down from the walls and a coal fire burned in the grate. Travis Elliot himself looked a little grim, I thought, as we came in. He gave Monk’s civilian clothes a surprised glance as he helped Laurel with her coat. It was the first time I’d seen him with her, and if they were in love with each other, they were certainly matter-of-fact about it, I thought. They seemed much more like brother and sister to me.
    “We saw Kane coming out,” Monk said. “What did he want?”
    Travis Elliot opened the cellarette at the end of the long sofa by the library table.
    “The affairs of a client are a sacred trust,” he said easily. “I couldn’t possibly discuss them with you. Did you take the letter Mrs. Latham brought him, by the way?”
    “Not me,” Monk said. “I’ve got my own fan mail to answer. Somebody take it?”
    “Somebody took it. And made a systematic search of his room to boot—or so he says. It’s apparently wrong to meddle with private papers if they belong to Myron Kane.”
    Travis Elliot turned to me. “Sure you left it in Aunt Abby’s room, Mrs. Latham?”
    I nodded. “Yes, I am.”
    Laurel was listening, looking from one of us to the other. “Who did take it?” she asked abruptly. “And what was it?”
    Travis shook his head. “I gather it wasn’t a fan letter. He wouldn’t say what it was, except that he damn well wants it back quick. He’s in a cold sweat about it. I asked him how he thought I could get it back if he won’t tell me what it is or who wrote it. Who did you say gave it to you, Mrs. Latham?”
    I started to say, “Albert Toplady,” and caught a swift glance from Monk.
    “I’ve forgotten, I’m afraid,” I said.
    Monk set his glass of whisky and soda on the mantel. “The only other people who could have taken it,” he said, very casually, “were Elsie and Soapy Sam.”
    Travis nodded. “And Sam wouldn’t. That leaves Elsie. She’d take it if she thought there was anything in it and got the chance. She’d think it was her duty. But why should she think there was anything in it? And I wasn’t paying any attention to either of them.” He looked at Monk. “I think,” he said coolly, “that if we could get that letter—whatever it is—we’d have Kane just where we want him. There’s something about it—He offered, just now, to turn over his manuscript and give back any other papers he’s got, if he gets that letter, unopened, before he leaves for New York tomorrow. If he doesn’t—” He picked up the poker and stirred the fire.
    “If he doesn’t, what?” Laurel asked.
    “He’s going to keep a dinner date, he says, with the head of the bar association. The district attorney will be there.”
    A coal dropped out of the fire and clattered noisily on the brick hearth, and at the same moment the bell pealed loudly out in the hall. Monk Whitney was watching Laurel